


Superweirdos

by still_unforgxven



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: F/F, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Squip, This Is Incredibly Self-Indulgent, autistic!michael, bc I write what i know and i'm damn good at being autistic, shit gets gay and fucky, superhero au, though we mostly focus on Michael's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_unforgxven/pseuds/still_unforgxven
Summary: At risk of sounding like a Marvel character, Michael was an average, nerdy kid with an extraordinary secret. He also has a few orders of business to get through before he can even THINK about applying for college, including picking a neat name for his alter ego and maybe telling his best friend of nearly thirteen years that he has a crush on him.





	1. The List

**Author's Note:**

> This all stems from a thought I had a few weeks ago, which went something like, "Ha ha, Michael Mell sounds like a super cheesy superhero's secret identity."
> 
> Then it turned into this. Oops.
> 
> I can't promise any consistent updates, but I can promise that the next chapter will probably have a Spotify playlist in the notes. So, that's fun!

Michael Mell should, at some point, get his shit together. In his head, that means making a solid, physical list of the world as he experiences it. If he can see it all in plain text, then he can process it and plan his next steps accordingly.

He’s a little busy chasing down a guy who literally vomits rats that give people incredibly advanced diseases, so he puts a pin in it.

Time around him slows. Literally. It seems, to the standard stranger, that his superpower was incredible speed, but that wasn’t quite right. He could just edit the flow of time around him, stretching or shortening it as he pleases. He could also make little pockets and loops, but those were a lot more unstable and required serious testing before he felt comfortable trying them out in the field.

For now, he was content with slowing everything to a near halt so he could stop this guy from actually genuinely throwing up rats and giving everyone in the vicinity Super Syphilis or whatever.

Slowing everything down also meant he could do this at a light jog, which is pretty great because he really shouldn’t have done those three extra sets of squats earlier. Being a superhero required getting in shape, and Rich recently started tagging along for his trips to the gym, insisting that having a buddy there would keep him from quitting. He wasn’t sure why they stayed buddies post-SQUIPcident, but having something other than himself to focus on was okay, and it meant that he actually pushed himself to get stronger.

His desire for a better butt was really neither here nor there. Doesn’t matter right now, because he’s about to give this poor rat-infested motherfucker the most unexpected sucker punch known to man. He’d learned, after some fucking around alone in his room, that his time-manipulation thing affected the impacts of nearly any hit he gave. If he gave it his full force, he could actually kill someone instantly. Hell, even half-force could ruin someone’s life. It really felt ridiculous to play-fight with real life villains, but he had too much of a heart to permanently injure someone, let alone kill them. He usually settled for knocking their lights out, then leaving the rest to the police.

The media loved it. They constantly drew the obvious comparisons, mostly Spiderman and Batman (and some occasional Deadpool on YouTube news channels), but they never gave him a nickname. He was always “the masked vigilante”, or, sometimes, “the man in green.” That one was kinda cool, but it felt too vague to use as an official superhero name. That was seriously gonna be his top priority when he made that list, because having to compartmentalize his secret identity was incredibly hard when he didn’t have a name for it.

He started pushing time back to its regular flow, trying to press down on the nausea he felt. Yeah, he should’ve ran over here. Staying outside of the regular flow for too long always made him feel sick. Ratguy over here was out cold, and the citizens had their phones out.

He definitely dug this part. He didn’t even have to smile under the mask. He could make any face he wanted to, frankly, and nobody could say shit, because he just saved them thousands in hospital bills. He hauled Vommy McRodent over his shoulder, gave everyone a quick peace sign, and slowed everything back down.

He didn’t have far to go. The police department basically had direct routes to his regular criminal drop-spots by now. Always in plain sight, ready to be cuffed and hauled off. It was a pretty sweet deal for them, even if they didn’t like that he swung in and was immediately a hundred times better at their job than they ever were. Oopsie-daisy, sorry not sorry. He loved that they were the only people that hated him. Well, superhero him. Regular Guy Michael Mell wasn’t really hated by anyone. He only knew of seven people in total that liked him enough to call him a friend, and everyone else was just kind of lukewarm about him. It was cool. He liked that most people just tolerated him outside of his hobby. It made it so much easier to get this hero business out of the way.

Speaking of, his work here was done. He dashed down the alleyway, made a couple of turns, and ended up at the dumpster that he usually hid his shit behind. He kicked on jeans, shoved his hoodie over his head, and changed from his weirdo boots into regular old Converse. Mask and boots were shoved to the bottom of his bag, and he was just another guy. He slipped back into the flow, took a couple deep breaths, and walked back from the gross alleyway to the trusty parking compound where he left his car.

All in all, he’s had a good day. He deserved to reward himself. Slushie time.

~~~

One Seven-Eleven trip and three trig assignments (god, he hated playing catch-up) later, Michael sat down in front of his computer and opened up a fresh Word document. List time.

 

       Super To-Do List:

  1. Figure out superhero name!
  2. Find better suit material.
  3. Nausea relief???
  4. ~~Tell best friend that you’ve got a stupid crush and also that you’re a superhero.~~



 

Yeah, that one was too far-fetched. He pressed the backspace until he was left with three items on his weird-ass itinerary. The first one was going to be the most difficult, so he put one of those squiggly things by it for now. That was going to require a whole other list, and he planned on sleeping before midnight tonight.

Jenna Rolan, as far as he was aware, was a seamstress. She mentioned it under her breath a few times, and she wasn’t the only listener in their grade. Maybe he could ask her about fabric?

His first and only costume was a spandex nightmare. He had zero sewing experience and about fourteen more thumbs than he needed, and it showed. The stitches were bunched-up and ugly, and he honestly only wore it because he spent a lot of money on fabric online and didn’t want to throw it out.

Talking to anyone even remotely popular, even if they were sort of his pals, was really not a thing he ever wanted to do, though. Ever. He was better than Jeremy at hiding it, but he still had mad social anxiety. His throat closed, he mixed up his words, and, frankly, he didn’t know how to stop himself from saying dumb shit. Saying anything more than “hi” or a quick quip that he spent at least 20 minutes rehearsing in his head was a dangerous game.

But now his brain was completely off track, because there was never a moment in his life where Jeremy Heere _wasn’t_ a perfectly constructed distraction. Thinking about him was easier than blinking, more consistent than a heartbeat. Even through the weird-ass robopocalypse abandonment fiesta last fall, he loved him like nothing else.

Of course, he’d never tell him, and he was good at being content with staying best friends forever. Jeremy had never really expressed interest in dating guys, and Michael never really had the guts to ask. There was very little hope that Jeremy wasn’t straight. Shotgunning and that one time after seeing Deadpool in theaters notwithstanding.

So, all he had left on his list was nausea stuff. God, Google knew how to deliver the best news ever right when he needed it. Pickled ginger, commonly paired sushi, was a common nausea reliever. Fuck yeah. Was there anything that couldn’t be fixed with a Seven-Eleven run?

 

 


	2. The Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has a question for Jenna. A revealing one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was once a time where, when I started a draft, I wouldn't get past 800 words before I quit.
> 
> This full document is now over 3000 words. I dunno what's gotten into me, but I hope it keeps going, because I have a lot more ideas for this and I don't want to lose motivation any time soon.
> 
> Also, this chapter's coming out so soon after the first one because I said so.

He woke up and immediately wanted to fucking die. He was incredibly sore, his shoulder was bruised from carrying that fucking rat guy four blocks, and he had school today. How fucking long does it take for the school year to end anymore? It was mid-May, nobody gave a fuck anymore. Most of his table of uncomfortably close acquaintances (and Jeremy) tended to skip half the day or more. He barely saw the point, really, except that he actually did need to talk to Jenna before a suit malfunction became his most recognizable trait.

Getting ready was something he could do almost entirely on autopilot, which gave his brain plenty of room to start thinking about superhero names. All of the easy ones were taken, which left him with a good old-fashioned jumble of dumb ones to shuffle through. Chronos was taken (and, frankly, lame), Rewind was just plain inaccurate, and Time Fucker, while funny, was definitely never going to catch on.

Of course, this was the main track his thoughts shifted back to throughout the day. Whenever there was a moment of pause, he was nixing another lame name. It was times like these where he wished he had a thesaurus on hand, because he spent a good chunk of English making an increasingly long list of awful, increasingly similar names. Something in his brain reminded him that the fact that this was the most frustrating part of his life right now was a good sign, but he rolled his eyes at it. Fuck off, optimism, he’s busy.

The other track his brain wandered to today was how he was going to approach Jenna with this fabric business. No matter how he sliced it, she was absolutely going to ask questions that he didn’t have good answers to. He didn’t really talk to her past the standard hallway greeting and an occasional meme, and taking a sudden interest in her hobbies was bound to look shady as fuck.

Now was the time to bite the bullet, though. Thankfully, there were only four people at their table today, and Chloe had already enveloped Jeremy in a passionate conversation about color theory and how it applied to outfit selection. Michael slid a little closer to Jenna, firmly ignoring Jeremy’s adorably focused little nod when she brings up split complimentary colors.

“Heeeey, Jenna-lenna-ding-dong,” he said, immediately wanting to crawl in a hole. What a fucking greeting, dude. It made Jenna actually look up from her phone to give him a confused grin.

“Is _that_ what you’re calling me now?” It was snarky, but she looked amused. He could peek out of his metaphorical hole. She went back to clicking away on her phone, but he knew he had her attention. “What’s up, Michael-wichael-bo-bichael?”

He chuckled. That made him feel a lot better. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought to come up with a few more ridiculous nicknames for her. Later.

“I actually have a question for you.” He paused to grab the hem on the pocket of his hoodie and rub it between his fingers. Talking’s really hard.

“No, I didn’t tell anyone about your Attack on Titan phase, you weeb. Swear on my life. I’m saving that one for when I need a favor.”

“What? No, that’s not what I- _Who told you_?” That shit was super embarrassing. And, about a year after he swept those incredibly dorky cosplay photos under the rug, he read about the author’s super nasty nationalist shit, which made his 6-month obsession that much more embarrassing to look back on.

“Jeremy says the most interesting things when he’s trying to avoid a conversation,” she smirked, shaking her head slowly.

His face was warm, but at least he could come up with a counter for this. “Did he mention the part where I got him to cosplay with me? I think he still has the wig somewhere.”

Jenna turned off her phone screen and slowly turned to look at him. He could see incredulous excitement building on her face. She looked like she’d been given a puppy for Christmas, and that the puppy was also part robot lizard and could talk. He thought she was going to cry or explode from pure joy.

“Please tell me you have a picture or something, Michael. This is the kind of leverage I’ve been looking for! I might be able to get him to tell me about who he was writing that letter to!” Jenna spoke at a mile a minute sometimes, and it took him a couple blinks to fully process what she was talking about.

“Letter?” Jenna waved her hand, signaling that he needed to keep it down. Right, he’s less than three feet away from them. He could hear Chloe tell Jeremy that she was googling examples of something. Safe for now. He lowered his voice and asked, “What letter?”

Jenna leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh my God, so, last week when you took Brooke up to Sonic for fifty cent corndogs, Jeremy went back to you guys’ old table. He was writing the whole time, and he barely looked up when Jake called him over, so, being who he is as a person, Rich gets up to see why Jeremy’s ignoring us.

“He goes over all stealthy and shit, straight up tip-toeing. And he peaks over his shoulder, and what does he see other than a cheesy-ass Secret Admirer note, mid-draft and everything! There were a lot of eraser shavings, too, so he was really trying to get it perfect!”

That definitely sounds like a Jeremy thing. He once told Michael that it was his best bet at ever confessing in general, because he’s always had enough trouble communicating as is, and even the idea of having to communicate his feelings made him dizzy, let alone deal with the possible rejection afterward.

Michael used to hope he’d be on the receiving end of a letter, but he snuffed that flame in 8th grade. Whatevs.

“Any leads on wh- wait, we’re totally off-track. This isn’t what I wanted to ask about,” and of course he couldn’t remember what he _was_ going to ask about because now all he could think about was who Jeremy could possibly have his eye on now and also stomping out the flash of jealousy he feels every time he tried to guess. Not helpful.

Jenna quirked her eyebrow like a DreamWorks character, but Michael only shrugged. He’d remember later. For now, he was content to just listen to Jenna make wild guesses about who Jeremy has his eyes on now.

Of course, as soon as lunch ended and he went back to class, he remembered what he needed to ask about. Jesus. He pulled out his phone and shot off a quick text to her before English started.

**To: Rolan in tha Deep**

hey i remembered the Thing

**To: Rolan in tha Deep**

can u meet be by the cruiser after school

**From: Rolan in tha Deep**

u got it, dude

~~~

He was sat in the driver’s seat of his car, window rolled fully down, with his arms pillowing his head on the open window ledge. One of his favorite nap spots, and the late afternoon sun paired with the gentle breeze made it nearly perfect. He could feel himself slipping down, down, down…

“Hey!” Jenna called just as he hit the canyon floor. He yelped and flailed back, bracing himself against the steering wheel. He fucking hated those stupid falling dreams.

“Hey, Jen,” he replied, running a hand through his hair and pretending he wasn’t just taking a cat nap in a parking lot. Smooth like velcro.

She rested her wrists on the roof and leaned down to smile smugly at him. “How was the nap, snuggle bug?” He rolled his eyes at her.

“Shut up,” he cleverly replied, speech slurred from still being tired. He couldn’t wait to get home and take a proper nap.

She snorted. “You know you love me. No hetero. Anyway,” She leaned in closer, face relaxing. “What was this magical question that was so important that I had to delay going to my own car and heading home?”

Oh, shit, yeah, that. He still didn’t know how to ask about this. Fuck, fuck, think of _something…_

“So, totally hypothetically, but, if you were to design a costume for a real-life superhero, what fabric would you use?” Fucking genius. Totally foolproof and not at all obvious.

“Depends. What’s this ‘hypothetical’ superhero’s superpower?” She was back to smirking, but it wasn’t smug so much as it was curious-yet-knowing. She never looked more like her Twitter profile pic than in that moment.

She knew. Sort of. He hadn’t really said it, but this definitely felt like coming out all over again, except instead of the possibility of getting bullied a little harder, he was risking having to take the spotlight. Dashing in to save the day was something he could handle. Constant attention from his peers and probably anyone who works in any type of media production? Can’t handle that. Still, he could maybe dig himself out of this hole.

“Well, they kinda manipulate the flow of time? It’s functionally similar to super speed, with a couple caveats, but that’s the gist.” Maybe this was working? It made her cock her head a little bit, but he couldn’t really tell if that was a good sign or not.

“Seems like they need something on the light side, then. I’d recommend mostly 4-way stretch spandex for most of it, and a panel of sports mesh on the back to keep cool. It’s thin, but it’s easier to layer up than to strip down.” She flashed him a brief smile, and he knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet, but it still made him relax a bit. Even if she knew, she was playing along with the bit.

“Gotcha. Again, totally hypothetical, but what would that mean if they had, like, a patch of different fabric on the front that looked like a pointy belt but wasn’t?”

“Like a chevron?” He had no idea what that word was, but he nodded anyway, because she knew what she was talking about. “That might get a little tricky. Appliqués on spandex can make the material not stretch properly, but it’ll work.”

He nodded again. That could work. He’d have to look up proper sewing techniques (and use something other than his mother’s embroidery thread), but now he had a solid starting place.

He was going to thank her, but she cut him off with, “What’s this superhero’s name, anyway?”

 _Damnit._ “W-what?”

       “You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this hypothetical. Does this ‘totally fake’ superhero have a name?” She looked straight into his eyes when she did air-quotes around “totally fake.” She knew.

       “Uh, not really? I’ve been trying to come up with one all day, but I’m kinda drawing a blank, y’know?” _Play it cool, play it off, don’t make it obvious that you’re sweating_.

       She pursed her lips and studied him for a second, eyebrow doing that classy DreamWorks quirk again. He lounged back in his seat and studied her, too, because fuck you, Jenna, he’s not going to let her know that he knows she knows.

       “Pace Breaker,” she said simply, standing up straight. He must have looked as confused as he felt, because she quickly tacked on: “He fucks with time, right? Pace Breaker.”

       He slowly nodded, and, as she backed away from his car to her own, he repeated it, slowly, to himself. Pace Breaker.

       It was definitely cooler than what he’d written that day.

 

~~~

 

       That night, while he was brushing his teeth, he got a Twitter notification. He was tagged in a tweet. A tweet from Jenna. _Deep breaths, dude. Deep. In… And out… Ohjesuschristshetoldeveryonei’mfuckedohgodohno._

       He hated just how quickly his heart had gone racing. It’s not like she had solid proof, anyway. _~~Rumors don’t need solid proof~~ STOP IT’S OKAY YOU’RE OKAY_.

       He closed his eyes, forced a few deep breaths (through his nose, because his mouth was still full of foam), and opened the tweet.

       Jenna’s Rollin’ (@mothmansonlyho)

caught this one taking a cat nap earlier. sweet dreams, @OneInAMellion662

2 Retweets, 5 Likes

 

Just below the caption was a picture of him, head pillowed on his arms and eyes closed. He had whiskers and ears drawn on his face, and a cat emoji was floating above his head.

He saved the picture to his phone. It was, honestly, pretty cute. Not the most flattering face he’s made in a photo, but, after having a near-death experience over it, it was welcomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a Spotify playlist for this fic! I plan to add more songs as this goes on, but for now:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/21qhxznn4u774yvjkxmlmymjq/playlist/00uZ5SuKeHhRjs1wbIlSEF?si=xFuq5sZ1QAOfNT5cXrL_4Q
> 
> Thank you for saying nice things to me in the comments, I love you all and will defend you with my life.


	3. The Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael really doesn't fucking like the gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me forever and a year to get this chapter done. I restarted writing it at least three times, couldn't get it to do anything interesting, and actually took a break so I could write a couple things for later chapters. Swear to god, this fic won't die until it's done. 
> 
> This chapter isn't as long or as good as I want it to be, but it establishes Rich and Michael's dynamic and god damnit, I don't wanna work on it anymore, so take it and let me die.

School was out, and the pain would be brought soon. Rest days always treated him too well, and he never truly appreciated them the way he should.

He watched Rich, earbuds in, dancing his way across the parking lot, drawing closer like Judgement Day. His gym bag was already in the back, stacked on top of Michael’s, and not quite smelling disgusting just yet.

Rich was a nightmare to work out with, frankly. He still had residual cockiness from the evil brain microwave stuff, which meant that he pushed Michael pretty hard. The dude set up all of their routine to a playlist of meme songs, which was hilarious and fun at first, but meant that he couldn’t listen to All-Star without feeling the weird urge to do Mountain Climbers. The power of association ruined memes for him, and it was Rich’s fault.

Still, he was the only person Michael would ever consider doing this with. After all, Rich was the only person who knew why he was doing this in the first place.

It started in the men’s bathroom. Honestly, when it comes to Rich, it always starts there. It was just after Christmas Break had ended, and people were still especially groggy from having to wake up in 2016. Michael had come in while Rich was drying his hands, Rich did his usual finger gun snap greeting, and a small flame, barely bigger than what a lighter can give, shot up from his fingers. Both of them were on the ground in moments, Rich staring at his hand in shock, panic, and disgust, and Michael trying to get him to stop hyperventilating.

That was their secret bond. They both had their own powers and used them to help. Rich mostly kept his shit on the DL, not wanting the media on his back all the time. He still partook in superhero-adjacent business, but kept to the edges of town where he wouldn’t be noticed.

The car door swung open, and in slid the Harbinger of the End Times.

“Sup, Nipples?” He said, in all his lispy, lax glory. Michael wished he had never shown Rich that stupid fucking comic. He actually had a lot of wishes when it came to Rich, most of which he would never dare vocalize.

The one that filled him with the most guilt? He kind of still wished Rich had his SQUIP. God, even thinking those words made him want to abandon his life here and go guide people up mountains for the rest of his life to repent for being the fucking worst ever.

It’s just that, SQUIPless, Rich was still kind of an asshole. He took jokes too far and dished out way more shit than he could take, and it seemed like they were constantly butting heads over nearly everything, inconsequential or otherwise. Brooke usually chalked it up to both of them being fire signs, which probably made sense to her, but Michael had no idea what the fuck that even meant.

But, Rich was also fucking hilarious. He knew how to pick out exactly what made someone shriek with laughter, how to pace a story with perfect timing and tone, and how to give some of the best pep talks Michael had ever received. Rich could also tell when he was bullshitting to protect himself, and he refused to put up with it. He could squeeze the truth out of anyone, and it frustrated him with a capital F, because he was so used to Jeremy either not picking up on his smaller lies, or just not prying, but Rich could always see it and always called it out.

He'd kind of squeezed his way into being Michael’s secondary confidant, and he didn’t know how to handle that. It made him sick to think about, but he sort of missed writing Rich off as just another jackass. Admitting complexity meant that things really had changed, and Michael just wasn’t good at handling it.

“How ya livin’, brother?” Michael looked over, and there he was, basking in the sun’s warm glow and taking control of the AUX cord without asking like the jackass he was. He wasn’t his Player Two, not by a fucking long shot, but, out of everyone, he made a really good next best friend.

“Larger than I look, dawg. Still making mental goo-goo eyes at Heere?” Or worst. Worst next best friend. He knew too much.

“Fuck off. He was doodling possums on his Chem notes today and it was too precious. He’s gonna kill me one of these days.” Michael sank lower in his seat, the tips of his ears burning.

“And you’re super sure that telling him that you adore him is gonna ruin your twelve-year streak?”

“Nearly thirteen, and _duh._ ” He held up his index finger. “Andand _and_ , I have no reason to believe he isn’t straighter than a ruler. Last week I saw him drink pickle juice out of the jar and, from what I hear from his dad, he’s actually fairly good at driving for a beginner.”

Rich snorted. “The real question is, can he parallel park?”

“Jury’s still out.”

“Then you still have hope. I drive alright, but I can’t park for shit. It’s a bisexual curse, I tell ya.”

Michael pushed himself back up in his seat, buckled in, and got ready to traverse to the pits of Hell, also known as Gold’s Gym.

~~~

Michael’s _everything_ hurt.

He hated arm day so fucking much. Even their cooldown, 20 minutes on the treadmill at mid-speed, made him want to rip his limbs off so they would stop aching. He swore, one of these days, he’d get revenge on the motherfucker who invented bench dips.

Fuck, he was so worn and sore that he let Rich drive his car. His Chariot. He willingly put the reigns in Rich’s hands because he so desperately wanted to not move his arms.

Which meant that their post-workout meal today was Taco Bell. Greasy beef-that-probably-isn’t-actually-beef and cactus juice lemonade because Michael couldn’t bring himself to drink Baja Blast after that one time he chugged three bottles and puked in Chloe’s lap at a football game. He still got shivers thinking about her murderous glare and hellion shriek.

“Welcome to Taco Bell, what can I get started for you?”

“Just a sec,” Rich called out the window before turning expectantly toward Michael. “What’ll it be, Weenie Hut Jr.?”

“That’s super Weenie Hut Jr. to you, sir.” He pushed himself up it his seat (ow ow fucking _ow_ ) and stared at the menu, absorbing nothing. “Uhh… that chicken chalupa thing, I guess?”

“Drink?”

“Like you don’t already know.”

“Hipster.” And he turned back to the weird microphone thing, leaving Michael’s brain to roam freely once more.

He slowed things down. Just a touch, enough that he could watch the way the wind wound its way through the bunches of lavender near the curb. Much better.

Bitch as he might, Michael really was pretty proud of himself for his four-month gym streak. He could actually feel himself getting stronger now, and it showed a lot around the house. Last week he helped his moms rearrange the living room without even needing to catch his breath, which was a first. He could almost carry in all of the groceries in one trip. And, yesterday, he caught a glimpse of his reflection after a shower and genuinely paused to admire himself. He wondered if this is how Jake and Rich felt all the time, and he decided that stopping now would be a huge disservice, not only to himself, but to the community.

His eyes slipped shut. The gentle thrum of the engine beneath his feet, the gentle brush of wind through the cracked window, and the soft, slowed chatter of his good buddy nearby all proved to be too relaxing at once, and he wavered somewhere between awake and the first level of sleep where you’re kind of dozing and you don’t even notice it.

~~~

And then there was warm food in his lap and Rich was parked outside of Walmart and eating one of those Doritos tacos (so gross, how could he do that to himself) while fiddling with whatever Pandora (Rich is an abomination of a human) radio he saw fit.

Michael, half awake, says the only thing he can think to after taking more of a nap than he anticipated: “Bwuh-where?”

“Dude, your nap face is precious, but you gotta eat before that shit gets cold. I didn’t bust out my crispest twenty for you to eat a half cold Chalupa.”

It was nearing the end of twilight. If he looked to the left, he could sort of make out a few stars (possibly planets. Were planets brighter than stars?), and, to the right, the last distant rays of sunlight were leaving a faint glow just behind the big box store. He probably shouldn’t’ve left Rich technically alone with his car, but, right now, it was running, and that was slightly reassuring.

Too lazy to lift his drink out of the cupholder, he leaned his entire body until he could catch the straw with just his lips. As he drank, Rich made obnoxious slurping sounds, which were karmically handled when he choked a little on his gross taco.

He was sore and sweaty and sitting at an awkward angle. All was right in the world.

Fuck the gym, but unfuck it for giving him a better friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All parenthetical asides are Michael's own thoughts and do not reflect the author's opinions. Except for the one in regards to Pandora. Fuck Pandora.


	4. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenna calls Michael. She also forgets what constitutes a reasonable time to call someone, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget about this, I swear! College has been happening, my depression got bad-ish again, and I've been planning another big fic with a friend of mine, so this got kinda... Well, pushed off to the side.
> 
> But it won't be over for a while. I haven't even gotten to the scene that made me start writing in the first place, let alone the boyf riends material I promised in the tags.
> 
> That's all a long winded way to say: Oops. I'm back, babies.

It was two in the morning. He had been sleeping pretty peacefully. That’s the thing about the gym, it knocked him the fuck out like he took 5 melatonin supplements and chased them with Nyquil. It also forced him to eat real (non-potato chip) meals and drink water like it was a real drink. It’s like he’s actually a healthy, functioning person or something.

And then, at 2:03 am:

_“[SON OF A BITCH!”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qrg_h7_Z-bI)_

You know, at the time he set it, he thought his ringtone was fucking hilarious. It had gone off twice while he was in class, and it was always worth the hour of lunch detention he got for it. It had been one of his favorite small comforts until just now, because snapping awake, propping himself on an elbow, immediately remembering the pain in his limbs, and collapsing back to his mattress wasn’t really putting Folgers in his cup, and was probably the worst part of waking up, if he thought to categorize it. That’s actually a good idea for a list.

Anyway, he tiredly drags his screaming, electro-punk blaring cell phone closer to his face, answers it, and puts it on speaker, because he’ll be damned if he has to actually lift it to his face.

“Yo.”

“Jenna, it’s literally two in the morning,” he slurs out, still at least five sevenths asleep.

“Oh. Huh. Well, this is kinda important, so sue me for staying up late thinking about it.”

“How important could this possibly be?”

“Two things. One, I’ve been thinking all week about your dumb ‘hypothetical’ question,” something about her tone told him she had used actual air quotes in real life while on the phone with him. “And, like, this very-not-real superhero probably needs a solid costume design, because it sounds like the one he has right now sucks. I’ve been putting some thought into it, and I sketched out a few ideas. I know I could’ve just shown them to you tomorrow, but I think getting our story straight is important, so you gotta remember that I’m just helping you out with this idea you’ve had for a comic book.”

“Uhh,” That was a lot to take in at once. Jenna was really fucking good at getting everything she wanted to say out as quickly and clearly as she could, which he appreciated. The fact that she had caught on to his unfake superhero shit was still nerve-wracking, but it seemed like she wasn’t going to tell, so he could learn to relax about it soon. “Sounds good to me? What was the second thing?”

“Well, that’s the reason I’ve been up all night. I’ve been working up the courage to tell you this.”

“Please tell me you don’t have a crush on me. I love you like a sister, but I’m as straight as a circle.” And he has someone else in mind, and that someone else is threatening to take over his thoughts until Jenna speaks up again.

“Gross, no, I’m a lesbian. I just-” She takes a deep breath. “I have powers, too.”

 

~~~

 

Why the fuck was he the first person everyone gravitated to for their superhero coming out?

He made Jenna go to bed with the promise of a full conversation during lunch, which meant he’d spent half the day anxiously waiting to get this conversation out of the way. He could probably get away with not saying much, since she’s the one who wanted the conversation in the first place. He just had to put on his Good Listener Brain and make sure not to leave too big of a gap between when she stops talking and he starts.

Talking is hard, okay? Not his fault he’s autistic and only used to having conversations with one person. He’s ill-equipped to handle the way people are.

So he does a lot of preparing for this conversation he has to have in his morning classes. He takes exactly three notes per class, and spends most of his class time building scripts for 12:30. He has to ask her when she found out, needs to make sure she knows she’s not alone, and needs to help her with figuring out superhero stuff, if she wants to go that route. Shit, should he tell Rich? Would Rich get weird if he told Jenna about his powers without asking first?

Talking is _hard_. And now it’s noon, which means he needs to text Rich, probably. It’s always better to ask first before outing people; he knew that better than anything else.

 

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

yo i got a Situation on my hands

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

so jenna knows about my superhero shit

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

which isn’t the issue bc i told her myself and she swears to secrecy

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

but she said she has them too so i’m sweatin

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

would it be a Bad Thing if i told her u have powers too bc it might make her feel more comfy?????

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

ur allowed to tell me not to

**From: that one gwen stefani song**

w8 she haz them too

**From: that one gwen stefani song**

did she say wht they r??

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

no i made her promise to tell me in private during lunch

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

i’ll bring u back slim jims

**From: that one gwen stefani song**

i gess u cn tell her if shes cool

**From: that one gwen stefani song**

gna hold u 2 thos slm jms

**To: that one gwen stefani song**

i know u will

 

And, with that, he put his phone away, as satisfied as he could be. He still had to have a conversation, but he had a game plan now. And he was going to be on home turf.

 

~~~

 

Sneaking across the parking lot to get to the Cruiser was one of his tiny delights. It was troublemaker-y enough to get his blood pumping, but easy enough that he could sneak anyone with him. He knew where the camera’s blind spots were, which trashcan provided the best cover, and that Officer McGee half-cared about school drama because it kept his job interesting, so if he gave him some inside baseball on the deal with Jana McLaine and Madeline Arnold, he would let him go with just a warning.

Jenna turned out to be crucial for that last one, because he hadn’t really heard much about them this week. Jenna, however, knew that Jana and Madeline had been planning to go to the same college by coincidence, and now were hoping to share a dorm. McGee seemed pretty touched by that news; their will-they-won’t-they games had been going on since sophomore year, and the two actually getting together was fairly sweet.

It was also enough to get them to his car, and he only really relaxed completely once he was buckled in. Stealth is draining.

“So.” He started the car. “When’d you figure out you have powers in the first place?”

“Uh, wait, you don’t wanna, like, see them first?” She shot him a confused look as she leaned the seat back a bit.

“Nah, not yet. It makes more sense in my brain if I get a timeline first. And, like I figured you’d pick something up in Seven-Eleven, for demonstrative purposes, y’know? Just so I know you’re not fucking with me,” He said, trying to keep his voice cool. He knows that, sometimes, when he tries to sound too relaxed, he just comes off as being detached and disinterested, so he flicks her a quick smile to top it off.

“Oh, gotcha. I guess it was just around January? Like, it was barely there, but if I focused, I could get the signal, like those chicken wires on top of an old TV or whatever. And, after that, it kept getting stronger and easier to pick out, like I’d memorized the sweet spot for it. It makes me dizzy, but it’s dope as fuck.”

“Nice!” He gave her an encouraging nod, and, unlike half the people on the road, used his turn signal. “What is this fantastical power, anyway?”

Jenna shrugged. “It’s kinda twofold? Like, part of it is telekinesis, which is fun and showy, y’know, but the other part is like, well, half-assed telepathy?”

“What does that mean?”

“So, like, I can’t hear people’s exact, word-for-word thoughts. It’s like my brain can pick up the basic idea of it, and tries to pantomime it to me from across the room, I guess? A lot of shit gets lost in translation, but it gets me by in plenty of weird situations,” she said, shrugging again.

He hummed and turned into a parking space around the side of the building. Private enough for Jenna to give a proper demonstration of the telekinesis part, but still close enough to the doors because he’s a lazy piece of shit and his legs are almost permanently sore.

“Is that how you knew I was bullshitting you with that hypothetical?” He pulled the keys out of the ignition but made no move to get out of the car.

Jenna snorted. “It only helped a little bit. You don’t realize how obvious you are sometimes. As soon as you told me it ‘looks like super speed’, I knew,” she nodded sagely at that, and then turned in her seat to look straight at him.

“I gotta tell ya, your brain is _quiet._ It’s part of the reason I hang around you so much. Takes a lot of energy for me to translate brainwords into vague inclinations back into brainwords.”

“That’s because I don’t think in words a lot,” he said with a shrug. “Mostly in pictures. Sometimes I think in, like, text, but only the visual kind.”

That earned a head tilt from her. “Huh. That’s actually kind of nifty.”

“I pride myself on being delightfully weird. Now c’mon, there’s slushies in there with our names on ‘em.”

 

~~~

 

Snacks accrued, they settle back into Michael’s car, and he decides that he can’t wait much longer for her grand reveal, so he closes the door and shuffles until he’s sitting crisscross in the driver’s seat and digging up the little emoji lip balm that he insisted be the test subject.

(“Come on, Jen, is this not one hundred percent your fuckin’ thing?”

“It’s the worst EOS knockoff to have ever existed.”

“ _Ex-fuckin-xactly!”_ )

He can’t help but stuff one hand in his hoodie pocket and wiggle his fingers excitedly, like he’s the world’s most enthusiastic and shittiest punk bassist, and it half calms him and half gears him up even more. Jenna doesn’t look nervous, but when Michael gives her an excited grin, full of child-like wonder, she seems to let go of a little tension in her shoulders and half-matches his smile.

“You ready to see some shit, Mellborough Fair?” she asked, wiggling her fingers like a cheesy street magician. He snorted at the nickname, but nodded and held his hand out flat with the dumb chapstick balanced on his palm.

“Do it, dude.”

Her face shifted, smile falling and twisting in concentration. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her pupils blew out wide. She was staring at the container like it was the only thing that mattered. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and, painfully slowly, the chapstick rose from his hand and floated there. He could hear her take an eerily slow breath as it twisted opened, spun 360 degrees, closed again, and dropped back into his palm.

He looked up at her, and held back what would have probably been an overly dramatic gasp. She was leaned back in her seat, seemingly on the verge of fainting, hand wildly reaching for something in one of the Seven Eleven bags.

“God damn, that shit takes a lot out of me,” she gasped, eyes half closed, groping wildly for her slushie and, once it’s located, taking the longest sip known to man.

He reached out to pat her arm gently, brain filling with concern. “Are you okay?”

She just waved her hand at him, pretty nonchalantly for someone who literally just made something _levitate with her brain_. “I’ll be okay. That shit just takes some serious calories. Which is why,” she pauses to hold up, like, four bags of almonds. “I stocked up.”

Michael leaned back, relieved. “Gotcha. Well, I’d like to officially welcome you to the ‘Reality-Bending Powers’ club. So far, it’s just you, me, and Rich, but we’re still thinking about getting t-shirts printed up.”

“Damn, Rich is in on this, too?” Jenna’s half-distracted by trying to open a bag of nuts, but she’s still curious sounding enough to keep the conversation going.

“Hell yeah. He got the most soul-destroyingly ironic powers out of the three of us, too. You notice how he has _way_ less anxiety about fire-related shit?”

She nods slowly. “I just figured he was in some really solid therapy.”

Michael chuckles softly. “Then consider me a licensed fuckin’ therapizer. We hang out once a week and I help him kinda get a handle on the emotional part of that whole deal. He’s gotten pretty good at getting the facts in order, I think.”

They sit in a semi-peaceful silence for a minute after that, Michael taking the opportunity to grab the bags and prepare for The Lunchroom. “Ready to face the rest of the group, Miss Mindpowers?”

Jenna laughs, and it’s tired and strained, but glitters like gold dust. “You’re not allowed to nickname any of us, _ever_.”

 

~~~

 

As soon as Michael gets to the Official Squad Table, he thwaps Rich over the head with a fistful of Slim Jims. He deposits the meat(?) sticks by his tray and moves to take his usual place between Brooke and Jeremy. “’Sup, squares. What’s the latest?”

Jake flips a coin, watching it flicker in the open air before catching it and checking to see the face. “Jeremy got breast implants.”

“Oh, shit, Jer! Show off them jugs!” Michael cheers, already giggling wildly.

See, six months ago, if Jeremy were in this situation, he would curl in on himself tightly and deflect as much as he could. Right now, though, he’s pulling down his shirt collar and shimmying his imaginary tits, much to the collective mirth of the group. Chloe imitates making it rain on his chest, and Rich calls out a slightly too loud “Damn, baby!”

He lets go of his shirt collar and, with a flat, relaxed expression, says, “I’m dropping out to fulfil my dreams of having a Sugar Daddy. I’m gonna be the cutest Sugar Baby known to man.” That statement riles up another bout of boisterous laughter from the table.

Yeah, therapy was working well for Jeremy. He still tripped up sometimes, of course, but on days like this, nobody would ever guess how anxious he used to be.

As the giggles die down, Michael glances around questioningly. “Anyone wanna explain the coin flipping thing?”

“Oh, yeah!” Christine pipes up. “Jeremy and I dared him into it. The rules are like this: whenever Jake gets asked a question, he has to flip a coin. If it’s heads, he answers honestly. If it’s tails, he has to make up a dumb lie.”

Michael smiles fondly at all of them. “You’re all idiots. Does anyone _check_ which face he gets?”

The silence is telling.


End file.
